


go out and (find a girl)

by greenurr



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Feminization, Gender Affirming Sex, Nonbinary Character, Other, Trans Character, bathbombs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 02:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19285948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenurr/pseuds/greenurr
Summary: Mike doesn’t want to be a girl. He’s like. Look. He’s like, 94% sure. Maybe more like an 84%.It’s not really something quantifiable.





	go out and (find a girl)

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a fic where a hockey player was non-binary, so that's what I did. If you're interested in a deep gender navel-gazing explanation, you can go ahead and read the end notes. Thanks for reading!
> 
> Edit: Annapods did a podfic here (https://archiveofourown.org/works/20109664) which I am BEYOND thrilled about and is so delightful I just did full body wiggles the whole time I was listening. Go give it a listen!!

Mike doesn’t want to be a girl. He’s like. Look. He’s like, 94% sure. Maybe more like an 84%.

It’s not really something quantifiable.

He’s a man, mostly. He likes guy things, like beer, and big dogs, and walking around with his shirt off. Like, fuck, he plays a violent professional sport for a living, it’s harder to get more manly than that. And it’s not even all that stuff, it’s more than that, it’s how he does his hair and how he walks and what he talks about and how he treats the people in his life. He does it like a man would, and that’s okay, for the most part.

For the most part.

He had his first girlfriend when he was 13. They got along because they were both equally serious: him about hockey, her about bath products. She had tons of them, spread out all over her enormous mirrored vanity in her room, along the edges of her bathtub, in bins underneath her bed. Lotions and perfumes and scrubs and soaps, a barrage of scent and color and shine that he could never get a handle of.

One of her favorites, though, was this lotion, and Mike loved it. It smelled sweet and cool, like melons and cucumbers, and it had a little bit of sparkle in it, so that when she turned the light would catch on the little gold flecks spread across her skin. He coveted it. He wanted to rub it across his entire body, and stand in front of the mirror, naked. Move, like she did, slow and soft, watch the light play along his limbs. Smell the calm on himself all day, like a little reminder: “You’re soft. You’re pretty. You’re smooth and delicate and something to be taken care of.”

He couldn’t, of course. If he even touched it, he would get sparkles all over himself, and he would never hear the end of it. So he would just stand close to her, when she was wearing it, pull her into his arms at the movie theatre and close his eyes and pretend that the artificial smell of melon and cucumber was coming from his skin, shining.

\--

He really, truly, genuinely, is able to put it in the back of his mind the vast majority of the time, because the vast majority of the time, it doesn’t bother him. The vast majority of the time, he’s fine with it. He’s comfortable in himself, and the fact that he only uses his scentless Lubriderm when he’s out of the good lube that he keeps forgetting to stock up on.

Sometimes, though, he is made aware of it. But it’s not always a bad thing.

\--

Mike hears the scuffling and grunting coming from a while away. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, eating a yogurt, when Tom comes into the room, struggling with a large box.

“Hey, babe, can you get the door for me?” Tom asks. Tom is a big guy, but Mike can see that even he’s struggling with the weight of the box.

“Here let me help,” says Mike, rushing to Tom.

“No, no, just grab the door,” says Tom. And, just as he passes Mike, he says, smiling, “Come on, what kind of husband would I be if I made my wife carry heavy shit around?”

Mike floats around in a dreamy daze for the rest of the day. He keeps trailing his fingers across Tom’s shoulders, eyeing up his biceps. Thinking about how he said wife: not something meant to be humiliating, but rather as someone to be doted on. Protected. Someone who, for once, isn’t expected to do the man’s job.

Tom gets tired of Mike eye-fucking him eventually, and bends him over the couch, fucks him on his tiptoes with one leg over the back. Mike lets his moans get a little higher pitched than he might have otherwise.

\--

It makes Mike sound like such a fucking dick, but he can’t remember who’s wife he’s talking to. It’s one of his teammates’ obviously, but there are so many of them, and they all seem to be small and blonde and wearing the same style of North Face zippered jacket at this family skate.

“Seriously, though, you gotta go to Lush,” she says. Her jacket has a little faux-fur collar that her baby is drooling on, and Mike’s been skating lazy circles around with her for a while. Her hair is up in a style apparently called “space buns”. They’re talking about hair products, because her hair was so shiny and pretty, and he wanted to know what she used on it. So he just. Asked. And she told him.

“Oh, yeah?” He keeps his hands in his pockets to keep from doing something stupid with them, like trying to stroke the softness of the fur under the baby’s cheek, or examining this woman’s little purple plaid mittens with fur lining. So much fur. It all looked so soft. Men’s clothes never came with fur. It wasn’t very soft inside his coat at all.

“Yeah, like their hair products are good and all, but there is literally nothing better than lying in a Lush bathbomb for two hours until you go comatose. Seriously. And they’re filled with sparkles, so you literally shimmer for like two days afterwards. It’s so awesome.”

Tom swoops in right then to make faces at the baby, and Mike doesn’t think about it for any longer than that, really, until a few days later, a little box from Lush appears on his doorstep.

“I heard you guys talking about this stuff,” says Tom when Mike asks about it. “It seemed like something you would like. Do you want to do one now?”

Mike shakes his head, too afraid of what’s going to come out of his mouth. He goes to the bathroom, though, unpacks them all and puts them in the special place above the toilet, so he can look at them when he showers. He’s not sure he can use them, yet, but they’re nice to look at, up there. Something that Tom got him, because he noticed. Because he was thinking of Mike.

\--

A week or so later, Tom has some meeting with some agent, so while he’s gone, Mike decides to make himself useful and make dinner. It’s just stir-fry, nothing fancy, but he doesn’t want to put on a shirt, so he hunts around for the apron his mom left the last time she was here. It says “Romaine Calm and Carrot On” and she had laughed herself sick when she had given it to him.

He’s just adding in the broccoli when Tom comes home. He walks up behind Mike and hugs him around the waist, burrowing his face into Mike’s hair.

“Hi bud,” says Mike, stirring.

“Mmm,” says Tom. “Smells great.”

“I’ve been slaving over it all afternoon for you.”

“So dedicated. What’d a guy like me ever do to get a girl like you, huh? In your cute little apron, fuck.” Tom kisses Mike on the back of the head and pats him on the ass, then loosens his tie and grabs a beer out of the fridge.

“I’m gonna go watch TV,” he says. “Call me when the food’s ready.”

Mike finishes the stir-fry and the rice and sets the table, glowing.

\--

Mike has to piss, and literally every single bathroom in Ovi’s gigantic mansion is full. It seems like Ovi’s invited every single person he’s ever known to his engagement party, and everyone and their mother is using the bathroom right now, because he’s knocked on four doors and all of them have been occupied.

He’s knocking at a fifth when he feels a gentle touch to his elbow. He turns and sees Nastya, Ovi’s bride-to-be. Her hair is curled and cascading down her back, and she smiles slightly at him, jerks her head towards the staircase. It’s not hard to understand the “follow me” implied there.

He follows up behind her, not entirely sure where they’re going. He doesn’t really know her that well, since she doesn’t speak much English, but she seems very kind, and Ovi obviously thinks the world of her. As they go up the stairs, he watches her hand on the bannister. Her nails are painted a neat light pink, long and gently rounded, and he wonders if those are her real nails, or if they’re fake. He wonders what his hands would look like with nails that long.

She leads him into a bedroom, what’s obviously her and Ovi’s bedroom, and opens the door to the ensuite bathroom. He nods his thanks, goes in, and does his business. As he’s washing his hands, he looks at all of the bottles lined up in an organizer in the sink. They range in sizes, and he wants to reach out and touch, but they all look so fragile. He’s worried he would break them.

When he comes out, Nastya’s still there, sitting at a vanity and rearranging yet more bottles. How many bottles can one woman have?

He walks up behind her and clears his throat.

“Thanks,” he says.

She smiles at him, and then, with a flash of mischief, sprays him in the face with what she’s holding. He feels a mist settle, and it smells sweet, like roses and lavender. She laughs out loud at the look on his face.

“Perfume,” she explains, in heavily accented English. She gestures to the rest, and when he looks, they are all perfume bottles, some completely full, some near to empty. “Come,” she says, and heads back into the bathroom. He follows her, still smelling like flowers.

“Skincare,” she says, placing a hand over the bottles he was looking at before. He makes an encouraging sound, trying to will her with his mind to explain more. He wants to know, what each little bottle does, what it’s used for, what order it goes on in.

She hums, and holds up a black tube. “Exfoliator,” she says. “For dead skin.”

She holds up a green pump bottle. “Face wash,” she says.

She takes out five bottles and lines them up on the sink. “Moisturizers,” she says. He counts them out, out loud, trying to make fun her of gently. She rolls her eyes, smiles, puts them back just as carefully as she had the others.

“Toner,” she says, pointing at a round, squat container with a twist cap.

She takes out a small tube, frowns at it, says a word in Russian. She sucks through her teeth, obviously frustrated. “Cream, for…” she says, and gently, slowly, reaches out and touches the delicate skin below his eyes.

“Under eye,” he says. She repeats it carefully, nods.

“Primer,” she says, pointing to the last bottle, “for before makeup.” She looks at him slyly. “You, no need. Already pretty.” He blushes, sputters, and she laughs.

“All done,” she says, and re-neatens all the bottles.

“What does Ovi do?” asks Mike. Nastya frowns deeply, exaggeratedly, and points to a bar of plain hand soap lying on a dish. He laughs, and she puts her hands on her hips, frowns even deeper. Then, her face clears, and she smiles up at him, pleased at her joke.

“Come,” she says, and leads him back upstairs. As they descend, Ovi’s voice booms out.

“There you are!” he says, walking over and pulling Nastya into his arms. She goes, happily, reaching up on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss.

“What were you doing up there with my wife, Latta?” asks Ovi, shaking a finger. Before Mike can reply anything, Nastya rolls her eyes and says something obviously cutting in Russian. Ovi laughs loudly.

“She say, ‘I was upstairs cheating on you during our engagement party with your gay teammate,’” Ovi says, quietly, leaning in and grinning. It’s Mike’s turn to rolls his eyes now, leaves the happy couple to go find Tom.

He finds him standing in the kitchen, fixing himself a drink. Mike comes up to him, leans into his side in a way he usually doesn’t let himself do in public.

“Hey bud,” says Tom, and sniffs. “Your hair smells like flowers.”

\--

It’s so fucking stupid, when it happens. They’re watching reruns of the Jersey Shore, for fuck’s sake. It’s the weekend after a seriously hard road trip—three back to back games in three days—and they’re vegging on the couch. Mike is mostly on his phone, which is why he doesn’t notice Tom’s frown right away. When he does, it’s almost comical—Tom’s staring at the nonsense on the screen like it personally insulted his mother.

“What’s up, bud?” Mike asks, wiggling his feet where they’re laying in Tom’s lap.

“I dunno, man,” says Tom. “It just rubs me the wrong way. You shouldn’t treat your girlfriend like that.”

Mike looks at the screen. One of the indistinguishable spray-tanned bodybuilders is hooking up in a club with a spray-tanned woman who Mike is pretty sure is not his girlfriend.

“I mean, yeah, you shouldn’t cheat, that’s for fucking sure,” says Mike, looking back at his phone. He likes a couple of pictures of dogs on Instagram. Fuck, he loves dogs.

“Yeah, but. I don’t know. That’s not how you should treat girls. You should be, like, nicer.” Tom’s frown deepens, into the one he wears when he’s thinking hard. Mike doesn’t see it that often. “Not that I think girls can’t fend for themselves or anything. Or that you shouldn’t be nice to guys, too. But if you’re dating a girl, you shouldn’t do… that.” Tom gestures to the screen.

Mike swallows, clicks his phone screen off. “What should you do with them?” he asks.

Tom makes a frustrated noise. “Just be, like, better! Take them out to a nice restaurant and pay for their meal and make sure they get home safe. Good boyfriend shit.”

“What if I was your girl?” asks Mike. “What would you do with me?” There is a moment of terrible silence where Tom just turns to look at him, confused. Mike can feel himself color, abruptly stands up. “Never mind, it was stupid, don’t worry about it—”

Tom nabs him by the waist before he can run away, pulls Mike in to sit on his lap.

“It’s not stupid,” says Tom. “It’s a good question. But you’re asking the wrong one.”

Mike can see Tom’s gentle smile from out of the corner of his eye. “What’s the right question?”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about how I would treat you if you were my girlfriend. Because you’re not my girlfriend. You’re my wife.” Tom kisses Mike gently on the corner of his mouth. “And that’s different.”

“What, you’re not gonna take me out to any fancy dinners since I’m a sure shot?” Mike asks.

Tom laughs. “No, of course I’d take you out. But it’s just, I don’t know. Different. Like, I wouldn’t fuck you on the couch. That’s kid shit.”

“What, grownups do it in bed?”

“Yuh-huh. And I’d probably do this—” Tom sweeps Mike up into his arms, carrying him princess-style. Mike shrieks. “—a whole lot more.”

“Stop it,” laughs Mike. “You’re gonna drop me!”

“Drop my wife? Never. I’m strong enough to carry two of you.”

Tom brings Mike into their bedroom, dumps him on the bed. Mike scoots up towards the pillows, sitting up and bringing his knees to his chest, curving his arms around them. Protecting himself. He looks up at Tom. He’s panting from throwing Mike around, and his hair is all messed up. He has a little smile in the corner of his mouth.

“Getting shy on me, sweetheart?” he asks, tilting his head a little.

Mike scoffs, raises his chin. “No way,” he says.

“Alright,” says Tom, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Then be a good girl and come sit on my lap.”

Mike can’t help the sound he lets out. It’s something softer than a grunt, sharper than a moan. He feels, all of the sudden, like he can’t control his body. He clasps his hands even tighter together to keep from shaking. He closes his eyes, rests his forehead against his knees and breathes.

He feels a touch at his ankle, Tom’s big warm hand wrapping around the gap between his jeans and his sock. He squeezes once, a silent question. _Are you ok? Did I go too far? Do you want to stop?_ Mike doesn’t know a lot right now, but he knows that if he stops right now, if he doesn’t see this through, he’s gonna regret it for a long time.

He raises his head and gives the same grin he gives across the faceoff line. “Make me,” he says.

The only warning he gets is the slightest narrowing of Tom’s eyes, before the light grip around his ankle turns to iron, and he’s pulled down the bed, wrestled onto his back.

“You know, you’re supposed to love, cherish, and obey, here,” says Tom, as he climbs on top of Mike, grabbing a wrist and pinning it against the pillow. Mike gives thinks about struggling for a second, before remembering he doesn’t have to, and melts into the bed. It’s okay, for Tom to be big and for Mike to be small.

“I am obeying,” he murmurs, looking up at Tom through his eyelashes.

“Yeah, cuz you’re my good wife,” says Tom, and kisses him. Reassuringly, it’s the same as it always is: warm and sweet and a little messy. Tom brings a hand under Mike’s shirt, brushes his fingers over a nipple. Mike grunts through his nose.

“Yeah?” asks Tom. “You like it when I touch your tits?” Mike’s mouth drops open in a moan, and Tom pulls his shirt up, bringing his mouth over a nipple and cupping his pec, sucking hard. Mike is muscular enough that when Tom pushes upwards it honestly looks like a breast. Mike gasps and has to stare up at the ceiling for a second, bringing one of his hands to the back of Tom’s head.

“No bra, huh?” Tom asks, breaking the suction with Mike’s nipple and grinning up at him. “I like it.”

“Why the fuck would I wear a bra?” asks Mike. “You’re my husband, I don’t have to impress you.” If his voice is a little shaky, neither of them mentions it.

Tom gives him a big stupid smile. “Yeah, I’m pretty much a sure thing.”

Mike rolls his eyes, but he grins, too, pulls off his shirt when Tom tugs at it. Gasps high when Tom grabs him by the hips and flips him over, undoes his jeans and tugs them off. Tom grabs a pillow and shoves it under his hips, then spreads his cheeks and just. Looks. Mike can hear him breathing.

Tom ghosts a finger over his hole, then leans in close and spits right in the center, spreads it around. Mike’s face burns, and he wants to squirm but Tom’s weight is keeping him pinned down.

“Fuck, I love to eat pussy,” says Tom, then licks a stripe from Mike’s perineum up over his hole, flutters his tongue. His hands feel huge, holding Mike open, and the wet sounds are obscene, the sound of his tongue and his wet gasps as he comes up for air.

“You’re so fucking wet, honey, such a good wife for me,” says Tom, and Mike whines high in her throat.

“Fuck me,” she says. “Fuck me, fuck me please.”

“Yeah,” pants Tom, fumbling at his belt. Mike can feel the cold press of the buckle as Tom reaches over her, into the bedside table for some lube. Tom coats his fingers and presses two inside, right away. It’s barely a stretch, Mike’s already so relaxed. So wet. She whines, arching her back, begging Tom without words to just fuck her, already.

“I know,” Tom gasps. “I know, sweetheart.” He coats his cock in lube and lines up at her hole. They both groan as he pushes in, Tom low and gravely, Mike high and breathy. Tom gives her a moment to adjust, presses his weight down on top of her and kisses the side of her face, breathing hard in her ear. He’s fully clothed while she’s naked, and the difference feels so stark, right now, and so right.

“Okay,” Mike breathes.

She can feel Tom nod against her cheek, kneels up and pulls her hips high and starts fucking her, hard. High little moans get knocked out of her with every thrust, and she gets her knees under her and grabs hold of the bedspread and starts pushing back. Tom groans and grabs her by her hair, pulls her head back and her spine into a perfect arch.

“Is this how you fuck your wife?” she gasps between thrusts. Tom growls, and leans in close to her ear, stills his hips.

“That’s how I fuck my wife when she asks nicely,” he says.

Mike spreads her legs even further, tilts her hips up even higher and even if Tom is trying to embarrass her, which she doesn’t think he is, he’s barking up the wrong fucking tree.

“Please fuck my pussy,” she breathes.

Tom groans and pulls out, flips her over and practically bends her knees up over her head before he hammers in again. He kisses her, hard, and she groans, takes herself in hand.

“Fuck yeah,” says Tom. “Touch your clit, baby, make yourself come.”

She’s nearly there, immediately; moves her hand quick, in time with Tom’s thrusts, and bites his lip as she comes. Tom groans and pulls out, knee walks up her body and jacks himself off, looking into her eyes, and comes all over her tits. She looks up at him, his head thrown back, eyes closed, hair sticking to his face, and loves him so much it hurts.

Practically echoing her thoughts, he looks down at her and smiles. “I love you so much.”

Mike smiles, reaching up her hand to touch the crinkled edge of Tom’s eye. “I love you too,” she says. “Now go get me a towel and clean me the fuck up.”

“Your wish is my command, wifey,” he says, and ducks a kiss against her neck.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to approach this fic as a way, I suppose, to approach my own gender. Labels are weird for me--I know I'm not cis, but beyond that, I don't know a whole lot. On the whole, I'm fine with expressing and being perceived as my assumed gender. My gender, frankly, is something that's very private to me. It's for me and my loved ones to know, and everyone else to fuck off about. I didn't feel qualified to write any sort of story other than my own, so that's basically what I did. 
> 
> I think there's a lot of stigma around how AMAB people approach femininity and womanhood, a stigma that as an AFAB person, I don't really experience. I did my best to be respectful. Obviously there's a lot more to womanhood and/or femininity than how you look and how you have sex, but in a culture that puts so much emphasis on how women look and how they have sex, I think it fully makes sense that Mike would approach gender exploration from that vantage point. Gender is so much about presentation, and especially before really coming to term with his own desires, it's a lot easier for Mike to approach femininity from a more accepted view, ie, either aestheticized or sexualized. I also know that a lot of trans/nb people, including myself, tend to either first express their gendered desires through sex, or have a major gendered breakthrough during a sexual experience. 
> 
> There's so much more to transness than I, a loosey goosey semi non-binary person am able to explore in this universe, or even express through words. I did my best, though, and I hope everyone enjoys it.


End file.
